I arrived a little late at the apartment where the party was being held.
Someone yelled my name when they saw me. Someone else immediately handed me a beer before I even had time to take off my jacket.
The living room was loud, stuffy, and familiar. Around ten guys from our college days were sitting on couches, chairs, and the floor, beers in their hands, laughing too loudly at stories every one of us had already heard at least three times.
They weren't all close friends of mine. Some were more like guys I knew from the dorms, parties, late-night walks back through the city, or those stupid bets that had seemed like the most important thing in the world back then.
But it didn't matter.
That evening, we were all acting a little like we were still twenty years old and had no responsibilities beyond who could tell the best story, who could drink the fastest, and who could remind someone of their most embarrassing moment from college.
The conversations jumped from one subject to another. Work, apartments, old parties, girls whose names half of us could no longer remember, and bets no sane person should ever have accepted. The longer we sat there, the more that old atmosphere returned. That stupid, masculine kind of competition where nobody wanted to seem boring, cautious, or too grown-up.
At first, it was innocent. We laughed about who had once fallen asleep in the hallway, who had broken the bathroom door, and who had tried to pick up a girl but ended up talking to her boyfriend for an hour.
Then the jokes started getting bolder.
Someone brought up the old dorm challenges. Someone else said that students today wouldn't have the courage to do half the things we had done back then without a second thought. Naturally, that immediately led to protests, laughter, and bragging.
I sat on the edge of the couch with a beer in my hand, watching all of them with a faint smile.
Even then, I knew the night wasn't going to end normally.
I don't remember who mentioned Ryan first.
Maybe it started with some stupid dorm story. Maybe with a bet nobody could tell the same way anymore. All I know is that at some point, someone laughed louder, pointed his bottle toward the armchair by the window, and said:
"Okay, but nobody here can beat Ryan."
We all looked in that direction.
Ryan was sprawled in the armchair as though the entire apartment belonged to him. One arm rested on the armrest, while the other loosely held his beer. He wore that shameless grin of his, the one that immediately reminded me of college.
He had already been handsome back then, but now he looked even better. His T-shirt stretched across his shoulders and chest, making it impossible not to notice how much broader he had become.
"Ryan?" someone scoffed. "Why? Because he's going to start talking about his legendary trick again?"
Ryan raised his eyebrows.
"I don't need to talk about it. Everyone remembers."
Several of the guys immediately started laughing. I smiled too, although I didn't completely know what they were talking about. I had once heard fragments of the story, something involving a shower, a bet, and a "volcano," but I had always assumed it was one of those college legends that became more absurd with every passing year.
"Wait," one of the guys said. "Can you seriously still do that cum volcano trick?"
Ryan slowly set down his beer.
"Of course," he said. "Even better than I could back then."
The room immediately became louder. Someone swore, someone laughed, and someone said there was no chance.
Then one word was spoken.
"Prove it."
For a moment, Ryan simply stared at the guy who had challenged him. Then he gave a short laugh, as though he had just heard something ridiculous, but I could see in his eyes that this was exactly what he had been waiting for.
"You really want to see it?" he asked.
Several of the guys immediately responded with laughter and swearing. Someone said that after all these years, Ryan was probably all talk. Someone else said that anyone who had a problem with it could go into the kitchen.
Nobody left.
Ryan stood up from the armchair and moved a chair into the middle of the living room. That simple movement suddenly changed the entire atmosphere. A moment earlier, it had only been a joke, another piece of college bragging dragged out after years.
Now everyone was watching him.
And he liked it.
I could tell by the way he removed his T-shirt. Slowly, without rushing, without the slightest trace of embarrassment. The fabric slid over his stomach and chest, revealing a body that looked almost perfect. He was built in a way that was genuinely difficult to ignore. Broad shoulders, a hard chest, a flat stomach, powerful thighs.
People were still joking, but the laughter had changed.
It sounded more nervous now.
When Ryan unbuttoned his pants, someone whistled. Someone else muttered something under his breath.
I didn't say anything.
I watched.
When he finally exposed his cock, the room became quieter for a second. It was long, heavy, impressive, and already partially hard.
Ryan sat down on the chair, relaxed and confident, as though he knew exactly what kind of impression he was making.
He wrapped his hand around himself and smiled.
"Okay," he said. "Watch closely."
Ryan started slowly, as though he had no interest in reaching the finish too quickly.
First, he moved his hand lazily along his shaft, more for the benefit of his audience than because he was seriously trying to get himself off. His cock twitched between his fingers, long and heavy, growing harder with every passing second. Ryan leaned back more comfortably in the chair, spread his thighs wider, and flashed that shameless grin of his, as though the entire room had become his audience.
"You still think I was just talking?" he asked.
Someone answered. Someone laughed, but I barely heard them.
I was watching his hand.
He held himself confidently, slowly sliding his palm from the base all the way to the tip. He wasn't nervous. He wasn't rushing. Every movement was controlled, almost arrogant, as though Ryan knew perfectly well that everyone was waiting for the moment when he finally lost control. He rubbed his thumb across the wet tip, spreading the first drop over his skin, then moved his hand down again and gripped the shaft more firmly.
At first, people were still making jokes. Stupid comments, nervous laughter, curses spoken more out of disbelief than disgust.
But the longer Ryan touched himself, the quieter the room became.
Because it no longer looked like a joke.
His cock was completely hard now. Long, tense, and heavy in his hand. Ryan's breathing grew deeper, and the muscles of his stomach tightened with every slower stroke. Again and again, he moved his hand along the full length, tighter around the base and slower near the tip, as though he were deliberately delaying the moment when everyone would find out whether the legend was really true.
At one point, he stopped smiling.
That was the first thing that truly struck me.
Ryan, who only moments earlier had been turning it into a show, suddenly looked focused. His jaw tightened slightly, his head tipped back, and his hand began to move faster. He was no longer merely putting on a performance.
Now he was genuinely pushing himself toward the edge.
That was when I realized something nobody else seemed to notice.
Ryan wasn't getting hard only because of his own hand.
He was getting hard because everyone was watching him.
The attention turned him on. Every stare, every nervous laugh, every quiet "fuck" from the other side of the room only made him more aroused. He sat there naked and shameless, his cock in his hand, looking like a man who truly believed he was about to prove something nobody else would have the courage to attempt.
His movements became shorter and firmer. His hand moved faster, his skin grew wetter, and his breathing broke more frequently. His thighs tightened on either side of the chair.
His stomach trembled.
"Okay," he gasped suddenly. "Now watch."
He slowed down.
One more stroke.
Then another.
And then he stopped.
He released his cock.
For a second, nothing happened. Ryan sat with his legs spread wide, breathing heavily, his cock standing hard and wet, as though his entire body were suspended in that one moment.
Then his cock pulsed, and the first thick spurt burst from the tip.
Someone beside me swore immediately, but Ryan wasn't finished. His cock continued to pulse untouched, without any movement of his hand.
I was shocked by how much cum was pouring out of him.
It wasn't one quick shot followed by nothing. It kept spilling from him, thick and white, running from the tip, down the shaft, and over his balls. It gathered there for a moment, sticky and heavy, before beginning to drip onto the floor.
One drop.
Then another.
The room erupted in laughter and disbelief. Someone shouted that Ryan really hadn't been lying. Another guy half-rose from his seat, as though he couldn't decide whether to keep watching or turn away.
I remained completely still.
Because to them, it was a party trick.
To me, it was something entirely different.
I stared at his tense body, his trembling thighs, and the long cock from which the final white streaks were still slowly dripping.
Then a thought appeared in my mind so clearly that heat rushed through my entire body.
I wondered what something like that would feel like in my mouth.
I swallowed, forced myself to smile, and before I could truly think about what I was doing, I said:
"Party at my place next week. Everyone's invited."
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